


Lies, Damn Lies, & Statistics

by voksen



Series: WKverse [61]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Illustrated, Lies, Love Hotels, Mistaken Identity, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dating! Love hotels! Romance! Schuldig.</p><p>CNTW/Dubcon based on Aya not knowing what she's actually getting into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies, Damn Lies, & Statistics

Aya had thought she'd be nervous, and, well, she is - but just a little. The fluttering in her stomach is mostly excitement, though, with a healthy dose of anticipation - and, as Erik's hand moves down her shoulder to rest lightly on her hip, a little surge of desire.

She ruffles through her purse faster, past her phone and notebook and all sorts of other sometimes-useful things, past the purikura pictures they'd taken on their date earlier that evening, past the birthday letter to her brother that she was in the middle of writing, finally snatching her wallet from the very bottom and checking how much money she has, just in case. One of her favorite things about Erik is that he doesn't always insist on paying, that sometimes he'll let her pick things up and not argue about it at all.

And staying the night is expensive, but his hand is sliding slowly over her hip; her breath quickens involuntarily as she fights the urge to lean back into him right there in the lobby. Choosing a room and getting the key goes by in such a blur she can't remember it a second later, though the hurried rush up the stairs is vivid clear, both of them stumbling into each other, laughing, trying to stay quiet.

It's obvious he wants her, really wants her, by the way he can't keep his hands off of her, even in the semi-public of the hotel hallway. It makes her feel sexy, beautiful, in a way no one else has ever really done, and she loves it, steals a kiss from him as they come to the room number on their ticket and go in.

"Oh!" she says, covering her mouth with her hands as the door swings open: she'd meant to buy one of the elegant rooms, with silk throws everywhere and a jacuzzi: what she's got instead is mirrors all along the wall and even on the ceiling, a broad, circular bed in the middle of the room, pillows nested high on the center. And now she _is_ nervous, glancing back and up at Erik, not knowing what to say or do, how to explain that this hadn't been what she'd intended for their first time.

Erik brushes her hands away, catching both of hers in one of his, and leans down to kiss her gently - but the romantic effect is abruptly ruined when his free hand starts to slide up under her skirt. He pinches her butt deliberately and she laughs, pulling her hands free, the sharp edge of her worry broken. Grinning, he follows her into the room, closing the door behind him.

"Pervert," she says playfully, though it loses its sting as she catches his wrist, pulls him to the bed; he knows it, judging by that lopsided grin, the raised eyebrow, but he doesn't protest.

Instead, he catches her up into a hug as she turns around to test the springs of the bed, his arms wrapping around her waist from behind, pulling her close up against him. He's hard already, she can feel his cock pressing against her through their clothes; it sends a shiver up her spine like lightning, hardening her nipples, putting a catch in her breath. Aya turns her head to look up at him, sees he's watching her in the mirror, blushes again, turns her head forwards to meet his bright blue eyes in the glass.

He ducks his head, kisses her ear gently, but never looks away. "You're beautiful," he tells her, "I want to see you."

Almost involuntarily, with no conscious thought, her hands go to the hem of her top, lift it just a little. It's embarrassing to watch herself do it, but blushing, she bites her lip, peels it upwards. Erik helps: pulls it away from her hair, tossing it to the bed behind them, then slides his hands back onto her, flat against her bare stomach. Her eyes are fixed on the mirror like she physically can't look away, looking at how he touches her, flicking up to how his long red hair falls over her shoulders. (And if it were a touch darker, a little redder, a little shorter -- but no, no, she's not going to think about that. Not while she's awake. Not while she's with her boyfriend.)

To distract herself, she reaches up, unclasps her bra, lets it hang open, then slide back down her arms. He lets it hit the floor, moving his hands to her breasts instead. They're warm, just a little rough against her sensitive skin, and she moans, leaning back against his hard, flat chest. They've never been even this naked together before, but she doesn't want to stop or even slow down.

His fingers pinch her nipple, sharp, surprising: she jumps a little, but when he does it again and she can concentrate on the feel of it, she finds she likes it, the almost-pain, the way he rolls his fingers at the end of it, twisting just a little. "Take off your skirt for me," he says.

She swallows, undoing the zipper, the buttons, wiggling her hips a little to push it down, so very aware of how they're pressed together, how she's moving against his erection. The skirt hits the floor as they watch in the mirror, his hands tracing designs over her stomach, dipping down low to run a single finger across the line of her panties. She shifts a little, pressing her thighs together: she's _so_ wet, practically aching to be touched. "You, too," she says instead, reaching behind her and tugging at his shirt. "I want to see you."

He laughs, deeper than usual, sexy, and lets go of her just long enough to strip off his plain black shirt, throwing it off to the side. Instead of turning to look at him, though, she takes a step to the side, looks at him in the mirror, instead: he's lean, defined, tan. "And your pants," she says, and finds that it's just as exciting to direct him as to follow his instructions.

Aya had almost been hoping he wasn't wearing underwear, but his pants slide down his long legs to reveal plain black boxers, tented out in the front, and she wants to touch, wants to stroke him. Before she can make up her mind on what to do, whether to reach for him, he's pulling her back to him, hooking his fingers in the sides of her panties and pulling them down - and shoving his boxers down as well, behind her, where she can't see until they hit the floor. Against the small of her back, her ass, his cock leaves heat, a smear of wetness, and her knees shake so that he wraps one arm around her to support her and pushes her panties to her knees one-handed.

"Look at you," he says, and her eyes snap open - she hadn't known she'd closed them. She looks hot, eager, her legs half-spread, naked, panties down, staring at her reflection. As she watches, transfixed, he pulls his hand back up along her inner thigh, up between her legs, so slowly she completely forgets to breathe.

His first touch is barely more than a brush, the tips of his fingers against her, back to front, teasing. She moans, squirms a little more, trying to get him to _really_ touch her. "Erik..." she says, tilting her head back to look up at him.

"No," he says, and takes his fingers away, denying her even that much. "In the mirror. I want you to see yourself. I want you to watch what I'm doing to you."

Obediently, she turns her head front again: she'd have done so much more than that in order to get what she needs, desire and desperation tangled up in a messy, tight knot in the bottom of her stomach. As soon as she does, he strokes her, more purposely this time, his fingers separating into a vee and going tight around the sides of her clit, rubbing gently until she gasps, whimpers aloud, says " _Please,_ " and "It feels so good."

She doesn't want it to stop, she never wants him to stop, and she knows without having to be told that she has to keep watching him do it to her to get that. She's starting to find it almost as arousing as the touch itself, watching his hand flex and move between her legs, his wide, tan palm almost covering her dark thatch of hair - and of course, looking up to his face where he's bent over her shoulder, watching too. Catching his eyes is embarrassing, but the second time she does it he kisses her neck without looking away, finishing with a little nip that makes her push harder against his hand, whisper his name.

When Erik takes his hand away this time she protests for real, reaches for him to try to pull it back - but he twists with a strange little flick of his arm, ends up with her wrist in his grip instead, and pulls her backwards a step or two to the bed.

She stops mid-phrase, her breath hitching, the knot in her stomach drawing tighter. He pauses, just an instant, meets her gaze in the mirror, and she says " _Yes_ ," in what's really more a plea than consent.

He sits, pulls her down on top of him; she squirms back eagerly, reaching to grab his arm and brace herself against it so that she can lift easily and come back down, his cock sliding deep in, one long push that's so deep, so wide it hurts just a little despite how much she'd wanted it.

"Shh," he murmurs, and she thinks maybe he's mistaken her quiet gasps for breath as sobs.

"No," she says, and bites her lip, leaning back into his arms and forces herself to do it again, and that turns into a staggered, uneven rhythm. The sting wears away so quickly she might have only imagined it, leaving just that incredible fullness, the pressure, the knowledge that he's in her, fucking her. And even though she's in charge, now, she can't stop watching the mirror, because it's so incredible, seeing his cock disappear into her, the way his body tenses a little when she tightens deliberately around him.

Erik laughs when she does that, moving his hand down from her waist to her pussy again, spreading it wide with two fingers so that they can see better. "You like that?" he asks, voice low, husky; she nods, speechless, as he starts to move to meet her thrusts, making them harder, deeper.

But it's not enough, as good as it is; she can feel his heart beating faster behind her, hear the way his breath is speeding, too, like her own - but she wants, she needs more. "Touch me again," she says, covering his hand with hers.

His fingertips press obediently at her clit again and she bucks into them, gasping with shock at how that makes him feel inside her, does it again and again, watching him play with her, his other hand fast around her to keep them balanced. Aya reaches up to her own nipple, pinches it hard the way he had, and that's it, that's what pushes her over the edge. Even in the midst of her own orgasm, she keeps her eyes open, sees pleasure flash honest and open across his face, feels his cock jerk inside her, his thrusts slow, every movement clear with how tight she is around him.

Even afterwards, rolled into the middle of the bed, she can't stop looking at him: there's the mirror on the wall if she looks one way, the one on the ceiling if she lays on her back. Not that she wants to stop looking, that is. Smiling, she rests her arm across him, leaning into his shoulder.

"Thanks," she says, and then, boldly: "I... I love you."

"Mmm." She's worried it might have been too soon to say it for a scant few seconds before he rolls over, pushing her onto her back and climbs on top of her, kisses her deeply, so intently that she can't help but respond. "I love you too," he says, and reaches down between her thighs again.

 

But a month later, when she's two weeks late and _really_ scared, Erik doesn't answer his phone, no matter how many times she calls.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Stonecarnival


End file.
